by Steve Reeder
“Let’s go ask Steffen,” Freeman suggested.
“Are you fucking mad?”
“Come on, Steff, at least give this some thought,” Bomber pleaded.
“No. Leave me alone.”
Bomber looked around the NCO’s pub where he had cornered the lance corporal. No-one had taken any notice of Steffen’s outburst. “Steff, just think what you could do with a million rand. That’s over one million US dollars! Jeez man, you could buy your own aircraft the moment you demobbed.”
“Dead men don’t get to fly planes, Bomber.”
“Think about it, Steff, we’ve been on two other major raids into Angola, and twice we come out of it in one piece…”
“Tell that to Pinky. He’s still in One Mil hospital and may still lose his right arm.”
“So he’ll have to learn to wank with his left hand,” Reece interjected. “Actually he’s left handed anyway.”
“Yeah, lucky him,” Smit laughed.
“The point is,” Steffen said, getting everyone back on topic, “I don’t see this as a laugh; a romp for a few days and hey-ho, off to London with a stuffed bank account.”
“Guys, this is a small operation like the others, only this time we might just become bloody rich!” Reece said.
“I seem to recall there were nearly forty of us on the last op, and we were still lucky that half of the SWAPO terrs ran away.”
“Yeah, but we needed forty troops because there was over a hundred of the fuckers. This time there will only be a handful of guys who think that they are safely three hundred kilometres from the border.”
“And how exactly do you know that?”
“Charlie Cole said so and he was there like I was,” Reece said. “Besides, we know there will be risk, but we’re at risk here anyway. So let’s do this, guys.”
Steffen shook his head. “No way - count me out.”
“Fuck!” Smit and Franz said in unison.
Thirteen
September. Northern Namibia.
Three days later, in the very early hours of the morning, Corporal De Swart, who was the NCO-on-duty, crashed into the section’s tent. “Fall in, fall in,” he screamed at the sleeping troops.
Reece and the others sat bolt upright. “What the fuck, Blackie?” Reece muttered.
“Section-two, get yourselves up. Webbing, ammo and five water-bottles and down to the HQ as fast as you can, and make sure that you really do have a full ammo count; you are probably going to need every round.”
Franz, as section leader demanded to know what was going on.
“A bunch of terrs have hit a village out west of here and you guys are going after them.”
“Shit! How many of them were there?” Bomber asked.
“We don’t know yet. The intel guys will radio more information as soon as they have it, but I suspect that you may get to know before they do.”
“Well that sounds like fun - not. Who’s going? Just Section two?” Smit demanded to know.
De Swart nodded. “I’m looking for a few more guys, but the camp is pretty much empty at the moment. So get your arses into gear.”
The men of section two exchanged looks, shrugged with weary resignation, then dragged on uniforms and the required kit. There was much muttering and one or two farts and ribald jokes that went with that. There was a palpable sense of nervous tension in the air. Everyone knew how serious this could turn out to be.
Captain Strydom waited outside the operations-room and watched the men gather.
Reece noted with interest that the officer was also kitted out in webbing, water-bottles and stuffed ammunition pouches. A R4 rifle stood leaning against the wall of the ops room.
“Is section two all we’ve got available, Corporal?” Strydom asked of De Swart.
“Pretty much, Captain. Section one is on patrol and section three only got back yesterday afternoon, and four of them are on guard duty because so many of the rookie company have come down with that bug, and the Colonel won’t let the rookies go until he’s satisfied with their training.”
“Who else is still in camp?”
“Steffen, Jones, Lotter, Mulder and Mad Bob.”
“Go get them. I think we’re going to need all the men we can get,” Captain Strydom said darkly.
Bomber and Smit exchanged worried looks while Franz asked, “Do you have more information on the terrs, Captain?”
Strydom nodded. “We think that there are approximately fifty of them.”
“Are we chasing them or setting an ambush, Captain,” Bomber asked.
“Both,” the officer replied. “Half of us will be dropped at the village to make sure it’s secure and the others will be dropped further north where we predict that Swapo will be trying to make it back over the border. There are only three likely places where they would do that and we picked the closest and most likely.”
“It seems like a tall order for eight or nine men to ambush fifty terrorists, Captain. What about the Meat-bombs down at Ondagwa?”
“I tried the Para-troop CO but the whole company is on a combat patrol over the border east of Calueque Dam. They have been recalled and I’m hoping that they can re-deploy to join us, but we are ordered not to wait for them.”
The duty NCO returned with five more troops; none of them looked pleased. Steffen in particular was not happy.
“Is this your doing, Reece?” Steffen muttered.
“Oh, absolutely, Steff - finding fifty terrs to attack a village is something that I’d do just to annoy you,” Reece spat back at him.
Strydom called them to order and laid out the situation, the position of the village, the proposed site for the ambush some sixty kilometres north of the village, and then split the men into two groups.
“There are two helicopters waiting on the shooting-range. Staff Sargent Kallis will command the second puma with nine men and the three LMGs and will proceed to the ambush site. Staff, your call-sign is Charlie two-two, and mine is Charlie two-one. For the purposes of this mission the HQ call-sign will be Charlie two-zero. The two helicopters will be delta two-two and delta two-one respectively. Everyone got that?” Everyone agreed that it was fine by them. “OK, check your weapons, make sure the safety is on and follow me.”
“There’s no buggering about with this dude is there?” Smit muttered as he trotted after the lanky officer.
The two puma helicopters flew line astern and a hundred metres apart for ten minutes, before the second aircraft swung away to the north.
Reece studied the men with him. Apart from the captain, who had also taken on the radio duties, Bomber, Franz, Smit, Toddy du Plessis, Steffen, Mad Dog Duncan, Tommy Freeman and Geoff Sherrington were packed into the noisy helicopter. Everyone looked nervous and Reece again began to wonder if there was something fundamentally wrong with him. He felt like laughing out loud with sheer joy at the coming battle, assuming that they managed to catch the Swapo members. He grinned at Steffen who was looking slightly green.
Twenty minutes later the co-pilot tapped Strydom’s arm and shouted something at him. Strydom nodded and gestured at the men, holding up two fingers. The tension in the aircraft rose perceptibly. Smit popped another stick of gum into his mouth and checked his weapon for the fifth time in as many minutes.
The helicopter suddenly seemed to fall from the sky, pulling up dramatically just feet from the ground.
“De-bus!” Strydom screamed. “Out, out, out!”
The troops flung themselves out of either side of the puma; running and dropping prone in a circle around the drop site twenty to thirty metres away, weapons aimed at the surrounding country-side. The puma was pulling up again almost before Strydom hit the ground, and increased its height to tree-level, flying a quick circuit of the village. The pilot called Strydom and reported no sightings. Strydom raised a hand in acknowledgement and then the aircraft was gone, heading for base and cups of tea for the crew. Silence settled across the area. Tensely, the South African troops viewed the ground before t
hem. Nothing moved. Finally Franz gave a low whistle and held up both hands and gestured, making sure the rest knew what he wanted of them. Captain Strydom out-ranked Franz, but this was the corporal’s section and his patrol. They swiftly formed a broad line, and advanced cautiously towards the seemingly deserted village, weapon cocked and ready. Franz was positioned in the centre of the line with Strydom; the radio was some twenty metres behind him.
The line halted at Franz’s command thirty meters from the barricade of sticks that defined the perimeter of the village. There were no sounds of activity from within. Franz pointed at Reece, who was closest, and then at the village. He and Reece would search the mud buildings. The others formed a semi-circle facing the village and were ready to give covering fire in needed, every second man facing outwards, just in case. First Reece, and then Franz, entered through the gap in the perimeter and advanced on the first hut, rifles at the ready. Hut by hut they checked and found no sign of life, even the chickens seemed to have vanished. There was ample evidence of violence though; drying blood on walls and a splatter of what Reece assumed was brain matter. He wondered where the bodies had got to.
As soon as they left the last hut, Franz waved to the Captain and gave him a thumbs-up. Strydom pointed at the far side of the village and the men jogged around to the north side on the abandoned community. Moments later Reece and Franz joined them and without a word they formed a spaced ‘V’ formation with Reece out front acting as a scout, and Franz once again in the middle of the line. They broke into a gentle trot along the path taken by the Swapo fighters. Captain Strydom took his position twenty paces behind the section leader and gave a quick sit-rep to HQ on what they hadn’t found in the village.
Franz waited until Reece looked back again, checking as he did on a regular basis, before he held up his hand. They had been following the easily seen tracks of fifty-plus men for three hours and every fifty-five minutes Franz called for a five minute rest. The men to the left and right adopted a defensive position and Reece returned to join the others.
In pairs the men took turns to take on water and occasionally eat an energy-bar. Strydom called in another sit-rep to HQ.
“Any news from Charlie two-two, Captain?” Franz asked.
“They are in position, but have not seen any of the enemy yet,” Strydom replied. “The intel guys say the main body of the terrorist are still five to six k’s from Kallis and his men.”
“Who are these intel guys?” Franz asked with a frown. “And how do they know where the terrs are?”
“Apparently there are two Reccies shadowing them,” Strydom admitted.
Franz nodded and wondered what the chances of actually meeting one of the legendary reconnaissance troop men were.
“Time, guys,” Franz announced. “Mad Dog, why don’t you take point this time?”
Swiftly and with a minimum of fuss the men were ready again. Mad Dog clicked the safety catch on his R4 riffle to automatic and moved off. Moments later the others were back in formation and moving quickly through the sparse bush.
Twenty-three kilometres to the north Staff-sergeant Kallis watched the ground in front of him intently. He had chosen his position with care and the trap was laid. To his right, and three hundred metres in front, he had stationed Corporal Peter Jones with one of the LMG crew and to Jones’ right, he had placed the other two LMGs forty metre apart and put two riflemen with each machine-gun. All were well hidden and had plenty of cover. Everyone knew the fall-back plan, and Kallis was sure that if the Swapo fighters showed any resolve then his men would be forced back; there were simply not enough of them to hold off fifty of the enemy. He drank a sip of water from one of his water-bottles and studied his troop-positions again. He could not spot any of them even though he knew where they were. Good! He was ready.
“Be strong, lads,” he whispered, “Your finest hour is coming.”
The sun beat down relentlessly as the breeze died altogether.
The surprise was complete. Mad Dog Duncan was practically on top of the enemy when Swapo triggered the ambush. Gunfire smashed the peace, crashing through the sparse bush, kicking up chunks of earth around Franz and the others. Mad Dog was down on one knee firing short bursts on automatic at any target that the enemy might be hiding behind, giving his comrades time to find cover and see the targets for themselves. Tommy Freeman saw them first and was shouting target instructions, “One hundred and twenty metres,” he screamed, “ten degrees left.” The call was repeated up and down the line as the men shifted their aim. Mad Dog now clung to the earth, his job done. He’d wait for the others to advance past him now.
Behind Franz, Strydom was on the radio. “Two-zero, two-zero – Charlie two-one, contact, contact, contact, wait out!” he screamed over the bedlam of noise around him.
The men manning the HQ would be alert and waiting now, hoping the next reports would not be mass casualty reports, or worse, no report at all.
As the South African troops acquired targets Franz began to organise them, regulating the skirmish line until finally he screamed, “Alpha, alpha, alpha!” a call that was repeated up and down the line so that everyone heard it. Moments later he was up and dashing forwards, every second man in the line was doing the same. Ten paces and then they were down, prone on the ground and giving covering fire to the others who repeated the manoeuvre, calls of ‘coming through’ screamed out as they passed in between their comrades. This fire-and-movement manoeuvre was repeated again and again until they were within forty metres of the enemy, some of whom had already turned and fled. Three of the Swapo fighters were down, either dead or too badly injured to continue the battle. Now Franz called another order, “Reload, reload, reload!” he screamed and as soon as everyone had a fresh magazine on their rifle he called out, “Charge!”
What was left of the Swapo ambush broke and ran.
“It was their mistake - they should have let Mad Dog go past and waited for the rest of us to get closer,” Bomber said, still breathing hard. He turned and looked back from his position on the far end of the contact zone. Toddy and Reece had taken up positions to his left, and were covering the area in front of them. Behind him, Franz, Freeman and Smit were checking each of the enemy for signs of life and removing their discarded weapons. Bomber counted six of them and he could see two more lying in the dirt out in front of his position. He looked across at Sherrington. “I think that we can count ourselves very lucky.”
Sherrington nodded, the strain of the past five minutes still showed on his face. “Not all of us,” he said. “The Captain is down. Mad Dog is with him now. And I’ve got a hole in my side too.” He lifted his arm and showed Bomber the spreading blood-stain.
“Cover my section, Guys,” Reece called, “I’m going to help with the injured.”
“I’m injured,” Sherrington muttered with a grin, “Send me a hot nurse.”
“Have you got a grid reference, Franz?” Reece asked. He had Strydom’s shirt ripped open and was applying pressure to two bullet-holes in the officer’s chest. Mad Dog was pushing field-dressings into the exit wounds in his back. Blood soaked through almost immediately. The officer coughed gently and mercifully passed out.
“Ja, give me a second,” Franz replied as he worked out the map reference and encoded it as quickly as he could. “Sherrington has a flesh wound as well, but it’s not serious.” He scribbled a series of numbers onto a paper pad and then picked up the radio. “Charlie two-zero, Charlie two-one, sit-rep, over,” he said and released the transmit button.
“Charlie two-zero - what’s happening, Charlie two-one? Over,” the voice of the battalion colonel came back instantly.
“Charlie two-one. We need an urgent medivac, better make it a chopper, to this grid reference,” Franz replied and read out the string of numbers. The Colonel read them back and Franz confirmed them as correct. “We have one serious casualty and one slightly wounded. Enemy casualties are . . .” he looked up at John Smit who arrived and squatted down beside them.
Franz relayed that information and waited. Reece and Mad Dog had now got a bandage wound around the captain’s torso, holding the blood-soaked dressings in place. Mad Dog rolled the injured office onto his injured side, leaving the uninjured lung to breathe without blood pouring into it. In spite of this, his breathing was becoming ragged and shallow.
The radio crackled back to life. “Charlie two-zero; Charlie two-one - hold your position but make sure there is a space for the medivac to land. Estimated E.T.A. is fifteen minutes. Puma is call-sign ‘Skyfall’ and will have ammunition, food and water for you. As soon as the medivac is airborne you take command and continue patrol. Confirm.”
Franz confirmed the orders and looked up at Reece. “Cassavac helicopter will be here in fifteen minutes. Is he going to live another fifteen minutes, Sean?”
“Fuck knows, mate. We’ve stopped the blood pissing out but it’s still leaking pretty quickly, and one of those has put a hole in one of his lungs.”
“Did you seal the lung-shot?” Franz asked.
“We’ve got dressings plugged in, if that’s what you mean.”
“Ja, but if you remember those first-aid courses we did? You’re supposed to seal a lung-shot with plastic to stop air pumping in and out,” he reminded them before jogging off to issue orders to the patrol.
“Oh crap,” Reece muttered. “Mad Dog, have you got any plastic sheeting or anything like that?”
“Just my credit card,” Mad Dog replied.
“You’ve got a credit card?”
“Yeah, don’t you?”
“Don’t be daft, mate. All right, give me the card, and unwrap that bandage.”